Chapter Six October 30
Chapter Six
I’m at church with Mom and Dad. Georgie stayed home.
We don’t attend every Sunday, but we go often enough that everyone knows who we are and vice versa.
My father is on the board, which means he spends most of the service in the office at the back of the building talking with the other men.
It’s a boys’ club. One of the last ones standing.
I think that’s why people hold on so tightly to religion, because it doesn’t change.
And I can understand how that could be comforting in a world that’s changing so fast it’s almost impossible to keep up.
I also think some people use religion as a crutch. Culture and religion are always being intertwined but they’re not the same. It’s not God that shames us.
Sitting next to my mother in the pew I can’t help but feel a small level of satisfaction, knowing I’m doing something that makes her happy.
I’m wearing the dress she picked out. My hair is styled the way she likes it.
I really want to be the version of myself that my parents respect and are proud of, but I also want to be free to explore the things and people I want to.
And the thing is, I don’t think I can be both.
When the service ends, the priest invites the congregation to the basement for baklawa and coffee to celebrate another name day.
It’s especially weird being here today without Georgie. Our once tight family unit now has a giant wedge in it.
I think my parents are still in denial.
At some point they will have to accept that a baby is coming.
At some point, so will I.
“Hey, Lennon.”
I look up from the dessert table to find Theo Petropolis staring back at me. I’ve spent the last five years successfully avoiding Theo. It’s easy enough to do since the only time we cross paths is at church, and I’m good at making myself invisible.
“Hello,” I say, without the slightest hint of emotion. I continue to pile desserts onto my plate, hoping if I don’t engage him any further he’ll just slither away. But he doesn’t.
“How’s it going?” he asks as people push past me to get to the coffee station. It’s super crowded down here, and loud.
“It’s going.” I look up to see a flash of disappointment in his eyes.
But what does he expect? He bullied me at Sunday school.
Who does that? It was a long time ago, though, and his dad did just die.
Besides, he’s friends with John. How bad could he be?
“How are you?” I ask in return, allowing my edges to soften slightly.
My words sound so phony, but that’s pretty typical whenever I’m engaged in any form of small talk.
He leans in slightly, pointing to his ear to indicate that he didn’t hear me. “Want to get out of here?” he says, almost shouting above all the voices.
I shake my head, struggling to process the fact that Theo thinks I’d go anywhere with him. But then an Arabic song blasts over the basement speakers and between the music, the body heat from the crowd, and the multiple scents of strong perfume and cologne, I find myself nodding.
With our tiny paper plates weighed down by Arab desserts, we exit the hall and walk up the stairs. We walk up another flight to the choir loft that looks out over the chapel. We sit next to one another on an old, dusty pew.
Theo loosens his tie before leaning back and shoveling an entire piece of baklawa into his mouth.
I hold my plate in my hand but can’t bring myself to eat in front of this person. People can change, but it’s hard to reconcile that with memories of how someone made you feel.
“So, I hear we have a mutual friend,” Theo says, his words slicing into the air like an icicle snapping off a branch.
“Who’s that?” I ask. Better to play dumb than give too much away.
“John Brody. He mentioned you and, well, there aren’t many girls named Lennon, so I put the pieces together.”
“Right.” I nod. “He did say something about you being in a band together.”
Theo’s mouth stretches into a wide smile. “He’s got us practicing that song you told him about. It’s cool. I like it.”
“Did you tell him how you knew me?” I ask.
“No. Because you already did,” Theo says, his trademark cocky grin making its grand reappearance.
I look away, the plate of desserts shaking slightly in my hand. I place it next to me and turn slightly to face him. “It wasn’t a lie.”
“No.” He shakes his head, his smile fading. “It wasn’t.”
“I should go,” I say, thinking about how my dad’s head would explode if he knew I was up here with a boy. I get up, taking my plate with me.
“Lennon,” Theo says as I begin to walk away. I turn back slowly, trying to find a safe place to focus my eyes. “You should come watch our practice today.” He says it so casually. Like we’re old friends and not two people whose lives have orbited around one another’s, barely ever intersecting.
“I’m not sure if I can,” I reply, backing away slowly.
Theo rises and walks right up to me. “Are you saying that because of me? I’m not the asshole I used to be.
I swear. I’ve grown up a lot. I’ve changed.
” Theo tips his head down, forcing eye contact.
“I’m sorry if I said jerky things to you when we were younger.
It was a long time ago, and I was a dumb kid who didn’t know how to deal with the fact that my father was sick. ”
I nod, then shake my head. “I understand. And I accept your apology.”
“Then it doesn’t have to be weird between us anymore? You won’t avoid me every time we’re in church or at school?”
“I don’t avoid you at school,” I say. “I haven’t even seen you there.”
“Really? Okay.” He lets out a small huff. “That’s interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” I ask, even though I really need to put an end to this conversation.
“I see you all the time, and I thought the only reason you weren’t making eye contact is because you were purposely avoiding me. But you seriously never saw me?”
“You know I’m autistic, right? Eye contact is a challenge on the best of days. But if it makes you feel better, I have spent the last five years dodging you at church,” I admit, and Theo’s laugh fills the space between us.
“Fair,” he says. “I actually didn’t know you were autistic. So thanks for telling me. Maybe now that we’ve hashed things out, you might say hi if we do cross paths?” Theo lowers his head again to meet my flittering gaze.
Hashed things out? He apologized and I accepted.
His eyes remain on mine as I think over his question. I just told him eye contact was hard, and yet his eyes are burning into mine like lasers.
“You’re flustered.” Theo smiles.
“No. I’m thinking,” I retort.
“You’re cute when you think.”
Is he flirting?
“Then I guess I’m always cute,” I reply.
Am I flirting?
“So come today,” Theo says, his grin growing. “We’re practicing at John’s place. I’ll text you the address.”
“I really don’t think I’ll be able to,” I say.
“Give me your phone anyway,” he says.
I pass him my phone, unlocking it first, and Theo adds his number to it before sending a text to himself. He hands my phone back to me before holding his up. “Now I have your number.”
I glance at my phone to see a missed call from my mom. Shit.
“Where were you?” Mom asks as we pull out of the parking lot. Dad’s in the driver’s seat, quiet.
“I was talking to Father Petropolis’s son.”
“Where?” Dad asks.
“At church?” I reply, hoping the vagueness of my response will be sufficient.
“In the basement?” Mom turns from her seat to ask me this. “Because I didn’t see you there.”
“No. It was too loud.” I bite at my lip, tasting some of the honey from the desserts I crammed into my mouth as I scurried down the stairs to meet my parents in the parking lot.
“So where did you go?” Dad lowers the volume on the car stereo while glancing at my mom. Like she’s to blame for letting me out of her sight.
“The choir loft.”
“You went there alone? With a boy?” Dad’s tone has shifted…
slightly. So slightly that only someone who truly knew him would notice.
I can feel his eyes peering at me in the rearview mirror while I focus mine on people in the cars we pass.
People who can just drive away on this beautiful fall Sunday and listen to music and not have to worry about every single choice they make being judged and dissected.
“Theo is the son of a priest. He’s like a brother,” I say, even though I don’t mean it. We’re not even friends.
“You can’t be going off with boys in the choir loft,” Dad says.
“I didn’t go off with boys in the choir loft. Theo and I ate our baklawa and talked for, like, five minutes.” I sometimes wish I could force myself to shut up. Nothing I say will change the fact that they think I did something wrong. Something bad.
“What did you talk about?” Mom asks, her question like a test. Her eyes shift to Dad’s as we reach a stoplight.
“I don’t know…stuff. Theo goes to the same school as me.”
“I didn’t know that. He’s a nice boy,” Dad says as the light turns green.
“It doesn’t look good,” Mom cuts in. “Don’t do it again.”
“Do what?” I know I asked that with too much bite and spite, but what the hell? I didn’t do anything wrong.
“Be alone with boys,” Dad answers.
“Baba, we were at church. It’s not like we were going to do anything.”
“Khalas,” he says, and Mom gives me a cut it out look from the front seat.
My phone buzzes and I exhale loudly before checking to see who it is. They may get the last word but I’m still allowed to breathe, aren’t I?
Theo: Did you ask them yet?
Me: Now’s not a good time.
Theo: everything ok?
Me: My dad found out I was in the choir loft talking to you
Theo: So?
Me: You haven’t heard about my sister?
Theo: Oh.
Theo: I guess they’re being extra protective.
Me: A high security prison is extra protective. George Hadid is Fort Knox. Thanks anyway for the invite.
Theo: You’re funny.
Theo: 272 Langston Rd. John’s address. In case you manage to get away.
Me: Not likely.
Theo: Can’t blame a guy for trying.
Me: It’s not you.
Theo: I know, it’s your dad.
Theo: John will be bummed.
I look up from my phone as if I’ve just been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to. Thankfully my parents aren’t paying attention to me anymore. But Theo’s words feel a bit too…has John said something to him about me? Or maybe he’s noticed me noticing John at school. Am I that obvious?
Me: John’s just a friend.
Except that’s kind of a lie. John has become all I can think about.
Every time we talk, I grow more attached to this idea of something that could never be. And yet, my mind keeps going back to all the what-ifs. Everything does. Every thought. Every idea. Every dream.
Everything comes back to him.
So, I stop myself from asking him questions.
I stop myself from thinking about him.
And I stop myself from dreaming as much as I want to.
Sometimes it feels like I stop myself from living.
And it’s all because of him.
Not John.
The other him.
My eyes meet Dad’s in the rearview mirror again and I look away.
I can’t stand the way he looks at me when he’s disappointed.
My stomach gets twisted up and all I want to do is fix it.
But I never know how. And I’m tired. I’m tired of letting his anger seep through my skin and allowing it to affect me so much.
Why do I give him so much power over me?
“Georgie?”
I knock gently on her door after changing out of my church clothes. I crack open the door to find her sitting at her desk. She’s about twelve weeks pregnant now, and the morning sickness seems to have gone away.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
“Making a list. I’m going to the drugstore. Want to come?”
She seems to be in a good mood. I don’t want to tempt fate by asking about it, so I blurt out my request instead.
“Can you drop me off somewhere?” I sit on the edge of her bed and swallow. “A friend invited me to watch their band rehearse. You could drop me off then go shopping and pick me up right after.”
“A friend?” She turns in her chair and cracks a smile. “Which friend?”
I try to keep myself from smiling and blushing, but the body reacts how it wants.
“Do you remember Theo, Father Petropolis’s son? He’s the one who invited me, but the practice happens to be at the house of the guy I kind of have a crush on. And before you get too excited, it’s nothing. He has a girlfriend.” I am doing way too much.
“Theo?”
“No. John. The guy whose house you’d be taking me to.”
“Is this the same guy you met on the retreat?” she asks with a smile.
“Yes.”
“Where does he live?”
“Langston Road. There’s a drugstore just outside his neighborhood,” I say, hearing the hope in my voice. Or is that desperation? The idea of being on John’s home turf thrills me in a way I don’t want to admit.
“Fine. Go and tell your lover boys that you’ll be there. I know you’re just dying to,” she says as she taps her fingers together in a mischievous kind of way.
Lover boys?
Clearly, she misunderstood. But I’ll let her believe what she wants because I really want to go to this practice. No. I need to go.